![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
doesn't matter if i bleed, avengers, clint/coulson, epilogue (4/4)
Title: doesn't matter if i bleed (epilogue)
Fandom: The Avengers (movie-verse)
Pairing: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov
Rating: Mature for this part, Explicit overall
Length: ~4500 words for this part; ~25,600 overall
Notes/Warnings: Epilogue/timestamp to doesn't matter if i bleed and will probably make much more sense if you've read that. When I started writing this whole thing, all I really wanted to do was to write the curtain fic epilogue. It just took a while to figure out how my Strike Team Delta might react to getting that curtain fic.
Also posted to AO3, here for the whole fic, or here for just this epilogue.
It's still pitch black when Clint's phone chimes with the text from Nat saying the SI jet was on the runway at LaGuardia. It's the end of December, though, so it's not all that early. Clint eases out of the big bed, moving carefully so as not to wake Phil. He's got enough time for a decent shower and to get breakfast organized before he'll need to leave to make the quick trip up the river to meet Natasha. Theoretically, Nat is the last person in the world who needs an airport pick-up, but Clint knows she's more than a little freaked by this whole thing, so he figures he'll make it so she has to ditch him in person if she ends up with cold feet.
Of course, it could just be that he's the one in need of a little moral support, but either way, it's enough to get his ass out of bed and stumbling into the bathroom.
By the time Clint makes it down to the kitchen, the coffeemaker is just finishing up its first, timer-fired carafe. He fills a thermos and a couple of travel mugs and gets it set up again to go off at a more civilized time for Phil. He knows he's pushing his luck, but he goes ahead and sticks a double serving of the steel-cut oats in a glass bowl, topping it off with enough brown sugar and chopped pecans to send a class of kindergarteners into hyperactive mode before he puts it all in the microwave. It's Phil's favorite--not that he'd actually admit to liking anything that sweet, but Clint has eyes. Trained ones, even, and they don't miss how quickly the sugared stuff disappears.
2 min on HIGH, Clint writes on one of the ubiquitous Post-It notes. Extra cream in the fridge--EAT, DAMMIT.
He sticks the note on the front of the microwave and leaves a spoon and napkin next to the coffee mug on the counter. The more trouble it looks like he's gone to, the less likely Phil is to skip out on eating. It's sneaky and manipulative, but successful and that's all Clint cares about.
He'd packed up the truck the night before; all he needs to do is juggle his duffel and the coffee out to where it's parked and officially get this whole insane idea underway.
* * *
The sky is just starting to lighten when the airport roars to life, the first flights taking off at 0700, the Stark jet dropping down over the Potomac to land not long after. Natasha walks briskly out of the corporate jet hangar with that particular attitude that makes Clint wish his Kevlar was within arm's length. She throws her bag in the backseat and takes the coffee he offers, though, so he puts the truck in gear and heads out.
It's ten miles and close to twenty minutes before she sets the travel mug down and sighs. "He does know I have no idea what "normal" is, right?"
"Like I do?" Clint snorts. He doesn't have a clue what had prompted Phil to decide that the three of them, of all people, could celebrate Christmas together, but Phil is not above a little sneaky manipulation himself, so here they all are. To be fair, Clint had agreed to the idea (theoretically, at least) and he'd been in the room with Nat when Phil had called to invite her formally. Total current freakout aside, he'd seen the look in her eyes when Phil had said, "We would very much like it if you could join us for the holiday, Natasha," and she was also theoretically onboard.
"Technically, we've done Christmas before," Clint offers.
"Trying not to freeze to death in a cave in the Urals doesn't count," Natasha says sharply. Clint isn't stupid enough to ask if she still knows all the words to Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer, even if she had willingly participated in learning them from him in a successful bid to both stay awake and irritate Phil enough to keep him from slipping away from them from blood loss and shock while they waited for ex-fil.
"This--it's not a job. That makes it different," Natasha sighs. Clint shrugs.
"Pepper's riding herd on Stark, Cap andBanner," he says. "And Rhodes. Tell me that doesn't make you, me and Phil sound like a picnic."
Nat mutters something under her breath, just loudly enough that Clint can identify the language as Bulgarian, which he knows she reserves for the rare times she has no clear idea of what to do, but then she takes a deep breath and says, "We're fifteen miles past Phil's house; where are we going?"
"If I told you to trust me, I'll explain when we get there, would you?" Clint knows the answer before he even asks, but some days he likes tilting at windmills. Natasha slants a Do not fuck with me, Barton look at him and he grins in reply. "Yeah, didn't think so." He waits another second, just to wind her up a little bit longer--because he knows she knows he wouldn't jerk her around if he thought there was really a problem and he thinks they both need the reassurance that this whole Christmas thing isn't really going to be a disaster--and then says, in an obnoxiously cheerful tone, "You and me, babe--we get to go shoot mistletoe."
Even if she does follow through with the threat he sees in her eyes and guts him before he gets another mile down the road, the pure disbelief on her face is worth it.
* * *
"Oh, my God, you were serious," Natasha murmurs as she loads the 12-gauge shotgun Clint brought along for her. She works efficiently, as always, but Clint sees how carefully she's holding it, like it's a special treat, and he can't help grinning. It is a classic: an over-under with a rocker trigger and custom stock, cut to fit her height and reach; he knew she'd like it as soon as he saw it. She's still annoyed enough with him to pretend like she hasn't noticed anything special, but he figures he's off the hook, at least for a little while.
Their host, one of Phil's former doctoral candidates, leads them across the open field toward a stand of trees. Phil hadn't said much when he'd sent Clint off on this crazy ride, but the guy is clearly military, clearly Special Forces, and clearly high-ranking. He'd also taken one look and known exactly who the hell Clint and Natasha really are, but isn't making any kind of a fuss. Clint trusts Phil not to have sent them to somebody who doesn't know how to handle himself, so he's not making one either, and Natasha is following his lead.
Clint steps back and gives her space, letting her set up the shot to the clumps of mistletoe dotting the very tops of the trees. She fires both barrels in quick succession and two basketball-sized bundles of green tumble the thirty feet to the ground. She doesn't exactly smirk when Clint tosses her two more shells to reload, but the tightness around her eyes has relaxed, which makes him relax, and then he has to laugh at how well Phil still knows how to handle the both of them.
* * *
"Yeah, so we might have gone a little overboard," Clint says as he lifts the lawn-and-leaf-sized bag of mistletoe out of the back of his truck and sets it on the ground in front of Phil. "You know how competitive Romanoff gets."
"Yes, it's entirely my fault," Natasha says, smiling as she takes both of Phil's hands in her own. "There was no one else around."
"It's astonishing how often that happens." Phil leans down so Natasha can press quick kisses against his cheek. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm just living with a hologram."
"Nice," Clint cracks, even if he still sometimes has a hard time catching his breath when Phil drops those casual comments about them actually being together. "Remind me why I put up with this shit again?"
"The sex is phenomenal," Phil says, giving Clint a quick, flickering look as he's ushering Natasha into the house and leaving Clint to grab her bag.
Clint would bitch about being treated like the hired hand except he's too busy trying to get his brain back under control after that look, the one that said Phil still had plans for him no matter that they'd spent half the night before wrapped up in each other, Clint jerking himself off while Phil watched, Phil barely opening Clint up before fucking him with a slow, deep rhythm that made them both crazy.
Phenomenal is an understatement.
Clint gets his act together and catches up with the other two mid-way through the grand tour of the remodeling. The attic and cosmetic stuff throughout is done; Phil's new office, slated for what had been the old kitchen outbuilding is still to go. Even having that much done is pretty impressive, but Stark had sent down the construction company he uses on his own property. Clint thinks they're actually kind of in love with Phil--in a strictly contractor-client sort of a way--just because he doesn't show up with redrawn blueprints every morning or insist on industrial wiring at the drop of the hat.
"It's very serene," Natasha is saying as Phil shows her where she'll be staying. Even in winter, the muted greens and blues make it feel like a water garden. "Peaceful."
"I hope you'll like it," Phil says, and Clint will give him credit: he's still got the straightest face of any agent ever. It had taken Clint a while to figure out why Phil had turned the house upside down and moved his room to the attic (their room, Phil always says, but it's going to take Clint a while longer to be able to think that without stumbling) but he'd clued in once he'd seen the separate entrance and the tiny kitchen and laundry tucked into a corner and realized how very few people Phil would have gone to that much trouble for. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go make sure your handiwork from this morning doesn't go to waste."
Clint had never seen Phil's private life while they were at SHIELD together; he has no idea if this person who knows the people who live around him and participates in the community is how Phil had been then. Based solely on the hours Phil had worked, he doesn't think it's likely. Even if it's not something he's entirely comfortable with, Clint kind of likes seeing it happen now, watching as Phil greets his neighbors and makes sure everyone gets at least a sprig or two of the mistletoe.
"I'm afraid to even ask how you explained that," Natasha says as Phil comes back inside.
"Surprisingly enough, it wasn't all that difficult," Phil says. He points at the two of them. "Federal agents. Partners. Never ones to turn down an excuse to shoot things."
"Smooth," Clint says.
"Sometimes you just have to keep it simple."
"And that," Clint says, hauling himself to his feet to go get the oil started heating for the turkey he's planning on deep-frying. "That is why he got paid the big bucks at SHIELD."
* * *
The temperature drops steadily through the day; by the time Clint gets the turkey cooked and back inside he's cold enough that he doesn't even bother giving Phil the standard hard time about latent pyromaniacal tendencies before he parks himself in front of the kitchen fireplace and lets his hands and face thaw out. Natasha wanders in and settles herself on a counter while Clint finishes off the rest of the food. She's quiet, but not strained; Clint starts to think this whole ideas of Phil's could end up being not just awkward-but-good but really-and-truly-good.
"If I cook, he eats," Clint explains when she arches an eyebrow at the cream and butter he's mashing into the potatoes. "And the more calories the better." She nods but continues to eye him thoughtfully. Clint knows that look; he can only take it for so long before he breaks and sighs, "What?"
"If I'd known about all this--" Natasha waves her hand to encompass the kitchen and Clint, the turkey resting under aluminum foil, the bread and vegetables keeping warm on the back of the stove. "Who knew my gift shopping issues could have been resolved with an apron or two?"
"Oh, screw you," Clint says, laughing. "I make fucking awesome mashed potatoes and if you can't be nice, you won't get any."
"Threats, Barton?" Natasha jumps down from the counter, landing lightly. "Are you sure you want to go there?"
"No blood," Phil says, coming into the kitchen. He still moves as quietly as he had when he'd been an agent. "The walls have just been repainted and it's a bitch to get out of the carpeting." He steals a piece of turkey from the platter Clint had found in one of the cupboards and surveys the rest of the kitchen. "You do know it's just the three of us for dinner, yes?"
Clint shrugs self-consciously. It's stupid and all, but he'd maybe imprinted on one too many cheesy holiday TV shows as a kid, where there was always too much food to fit on the table that everyone crowded around, so utterly alien to everything Clint knew as reality.
"Sorry," Phil says quietly. He leans into Clint for a second or two, just long enough for the subtle physical reinforcement that works for them both, long enough that it's not a lie when Clint nods and answers, "'s okay."
Before Natasha can execute a pure Black Widow fade-into-the-background--which is not what he or Phil want at all--Clint bumps his hip into Phil's and goes back to dealing with the food, saying, "I can throw some MREs onto a tarp if anybody really needs some comfort food--"
"Please do not make me stab you," Natasha sighs.
"What the lady said," Phil agrees and the moment passes, another tiny bit of the history between the three of them. It feels bigger than a couple of seconds in a kitchen should, but there isn't any blood or pain or weaponry involved so maybe it really is a Moment.
* * *
Since he cooked, Clint is supposed to be off dish duty, but sitting around while Phil and Natasha deal with the disaster he left behind is pretty boring, so he ends up in the kitchen anyway, straddling a chair and heckling the other two. He doesn't know if that's how Christmas Eve dinner is supposed to go, but Nat doesn't throw any knives--though Clint can tell he's tempting her severely--and Phil does his usual magical act with the coffee and they all three end up back in front of the fire with just enough caffeine to keep the withdrawal headaches at bay but not so much to get them jittering.
Phil being Phil, Clint is sure there's an agenda somewhere, probably with a color-coordinated timetable and possibly supporting flow diagrams. Ordinarily, Clint would be giving him a hard time about it, but given that neither he nor Natasha have much of a clue about celebrating anything other than making it out of an op-gone-wrong still alive, who's Clint to complain about a plan that doesn't include heavy weaponry. He just tips his head back so he can see Phil from where he's sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch Phil's sitting on, and asks, "What's next, boss?"
"We can do presents now," Phil says. "Or we can open them tomorrow, in the morning. Either way is fine by me."
"Now," Natasha says, lifting her head up from where it's been pillowed on Clint's thigh. "Before some moron decides it's a good time to launch a worldwide attack."
"She has a point," Clint says, trying to sound casual about it all, presents and a tree and he doesn't even know what else, all the things he'd decided as a kid weren't actually real because they'd never existed in any world he'd known. He's pretty sure he's failing big-time, but Phil only nods and Natasha rolls to her feet gracefully and disappears. Phil arches an eyebrow at Clint, one that says No, I will not be retrieving anything until you leave, because God forbid Clint not have to work to figure out where Phil stashes things he doesn't want Clint to find. Clint grins and goes to get his own stuff.
Natasha's gifts are perfectly wrapped, of course, and Phil opens his--a heavy, flat package that all but screams I'm a book--with typical care, prying up the folds and working the tape loose gently. She waves a hand at Clint, though, tacit permission to rip away at his own, much bigger, box. Phil's book turns out to be a history of the property, painstakingly compiled from land deeds and newspaper clippings, while Clint's box is full of soft, silky-feeling sweaters.
"Cashmere," Natasha says, adding "You never wear a coat." That's true enough; he doesn't like the extra weight or the hit it deals to his mobility, even if he's only walking down the street. "I get tired of watching you freeze." What she isn't saying is that his usual hoodies don't always fit with this life he seems to be carving out and he hasn't quite gotten to where he can do anything about it.
"You are an amazing, frightening woman," Clint says, leaning over to kiss her before Phil recovers from his geektastic speechlessness and takes over the actual communications. Just for a second, Natasha lights up at his words, a flash of emotion she still only rarely allows anyone to see. Clint thinks back to the cold woman he hunted and to the closed-off, defensive asset he was then, and it only barely seems possible that they're here now. He looks back at Phil, who's still heads-down in his book, flipping back and forth between several different photos with the kind of interest he used to reserve for alien artifacts falling from the sky, and nudges his own present toward Natasha.
They only had one rule about the presents: nothing work-related. Clint is right up on the edge with both his gifts, but he thinks they're okay. He hopes. Natasha makes quick work of the wrappings and box and holds the necklace he had custom made for her in the palm of her hand. It's a collection of charms and gemstones, everything from an Orthodox cross (they've taken refuge in more than one cathedral over the years) to the coat of arms of Budapest (which, he gets why it's important, he just would rather not think too much about how close they'd cut it that day) to rough-polished chunks of chalcedony and lapis for brotherhood and friendship. He holds his breath as she sorts through each charm without looking up, but when she's done, she slips the chain over her head and reaches out to cup his face in her hand. She doesn't say anything, at least not in words, but since Clint knows he wouldn't be able to answer anyway, it's better that they keep it like this.
"Phil's turn," Clint finally says, and nobody comments on how rough his voice sounds, for which he is very grateful. Phil does his thing with the careful unwrapping again, even though Clint's standards are nowhere near Natasha's. Clint is less uncertain about his gift than he had been Natasha's (that's always going to be a minefield, he thinks) but it's still harder to breathe than it should be. Phil knows Clint's freaking out, of course, and he drops one hand down to rest on the back of Clint's neck while he fumbles open the box with the other.
"Very nice," Phil murmurs, and Clint almost doesn't care that Phil lets go of him because he does it so he can take the cufflinks Clint had made for him out of their box, holding them like they're worth a lot more than the couple hundred bucks Clint had spent on them. "Roman?"
"Yeah," Clint says. "First century." Natasha makes an impatient noise and Phil holds his hand out so she can see them, too. Clint has to admit they look better than he'd ever even hoped for, the silver of the coins JARVIS had helped him find worn down by time but still unmistakable. He hadn't been sure whether setting them into cufflinks was a good idea, but they're small enough to not be tacky. He thinks Phil will be okay with wearing them, at least some of the time.
"Apollo." Natasha rubs her thumb lightly over the tiny figure on the front face. She smiles up at Clint. "The archer." Clint shrugs again, only a little self-conscious this time. It's not especially subtle, but that's probably not a surprise to anyone who knows him even a little bit.
Phil takes the cufflinks back from Natasha, but he doesn't return them to their box, only drops them in the pocket of his shirt before leaning in to drop a kiss on Clint's temple. For all that it's the merest brush of Phil's lips across his skin, the casual intimacy of it still rocks Clint's world a little. Phil's wearing a tiny, not-quite smirk; Natasha isn't even that subtle, but before Clint can decide how best to get a little of his own back--a guy's got to keep at least a little dignity--Phil is handing Natasha a small box wrapped in the tackiest fucking paper Clint's ever seen.
"This is technically from the both of us," Phil says. Clint tries--and fails--not to roll his eyes because 'technically', yes, he did say he was good with it, but it's not like he had anything to do with the actual grunt work of putting it all together.
Natasha raises an eyebrow at the paper, but doesn't pretend that she isn't invested in getting to what's underneath it. Clint kicks back and enjoys watching her rip through the wrappings but he doesn't think it'd surprise anyone to know that he really gets his thrill out of watching Phil watch her. When she gets to the box and the keys fall into her hand, she stares at them unblinkingly for long enough that Clint doesn't even have to look hard to catch Phil starting to shift into crisis-management mode.
"Is this what I think it is?" Natasha finally asks in that perfectly calm voice, the one that says to Clint she's buying herself time, and fuck, but Clint seriously hopes it's time she needs to process, not start running.
"If you think it's a set of keys to the side door on the apartment you're sleeping in, then yes, it is what you think it is," Phil answers, in the same calm voice, which tells Clint he's trying to figure out how to avert an impending disaster.
They stare at each other for long enough that Clint figures he better step up, before one of them does something stupid. If he wasn't kind of holding his breath waiting for Nat to lose it and Phil to overreact in response, he figures he'd be enjoying this whole being-the-one-who's-not-freaking-out thing more. As it is, he's mostly just... jittery, so he takes a deep breath and lets it trickle out, like he's lining up a shot and can't afford to let anything in his head bleed through to the rest of his body.
"Nat," Clint says quietly. He thinks he sounds good. Solid. Nothing in his voice that even hints how much he doesn't want this to turn into a complete clusterfuck. "You need to breathe, so Phil can, too."
She shoots him a sharp glance, but since it's really only at DefCon 2 or 3, he's not too worried. He's survived worse, and with far less important outcomes at stake. It breaks the spell, though; Natasha meets Phil's eyes, while he leans in and folds her hand around the keys. Clint doesn't sigh in relief--that's a sure invitation for a couple of extra kicks to the ribs the next time he and Nat spar--but he thinks about it. Phil smiles at him like he knows what Clint was thinking, but then he's holding out a flat box wrapped in different, but equally obnoxious paper and Clint has better stuff to think about.
"Damn, Phil," Clint says, tearing at the ridiculous amount of tape Phil had used. "I'm kinda afraid to ask where you got your wrapping style."
The words are out of his mouth before he thinks about them. About all Clint knows is that Phil had been an only child of older parents, long-since passed away. He doesn't know if there's any extended family or anything, or if Phil might not appreciate being reminded that he's spending the holiday with a couple of assets instead of with them.
"If everything's perfect, it's a magazine spread, not reality," Phil says, as calm and unperturbed as ever. "My father always said that--mostly, I think, to excuse his incredibly bad taste in--well, everything." He smiles to himself.
"Yeah?" Clint asks, glad that fighting with the damn package gives him a plausible reason not to look at Phil while he talks. It makes it easier to keep from sounding like a sentimental idiot over hearing Phil talk about his family, however insignificant it might be. "You get your tape technique from him, too?"
"No," Phil says, and his smile, when Clint darts a quick look at him, is wicked now. "That's just because Natasha and I wanted to see how long you'd work at that by hand before you tried to steal one of her knives."
"Hey," Clint sputters indignantly. "I was trying to be classy here, but if that's the way you want to play--" His practice quiver is right inside the door; he can cut with an arrow as easily as he can a knife, but before he can actually stand up and go get one, Natasha's tossing one of her small stilettos in the air and he catches it almost by instinct. "Don't piss off the guy who's getting up to make your breakfast," he grumbles, slicing through the fifteen layers of tape Phil's wrapped around the thing and throwing the knife back to Natasha.
"Maybe I just like watching your technique," Phil murmurs. He lets his eyes linger on Clint's hands for a second or two longer than strictly necessary and then smiles at Clint and Clint decides he can probably forgive him.
Just this once.
Clint already owes Nat for more than he'll ever be able to square up with her; letting her give him a hard time about something like wrapping paper doesn't seem like much of down payment, even before he gets to the part where he can put up with a lot more to see her as relaxed as she is now, so he just rolls his eyes at her and digs into the package.
"Gee, honey," he says, when he pulls out an accordion file that's stuffed so full it's barely closing. "You got me... paperwork? You shouldn't have." Phil's still smiling at him, but he's starting to look almost nervous around the edges, which is enough for Clint to cut the chatter and seriously pay attention to whatever it is in his hands. Natasha makes an impatient sound and Clint starts passing over pages once he's skimmed them and--
"Numbered accounts in the Caymans?" she murmurs and Clint shrugs helplessly, because he's ten pages ahead of her and they're articles of incorporation, two levels deep and the only asset he's seeing is a quit-claim deed.
"For fuck's sake, Phil, are you crazy?" Clint ruffles through the pages again, but nothing changes, not the dummy corporations or the bank accounts or the address on the deed, and he really fucking cannot deal with this.
Clint shoves the rest of the paperwork at Natasha and looks up at Phil, who shrugs at him and says, "I wouldn't have done even half as much work here without the money you threw in--"
"Like I told you, it wasn't a big deal," Clint interrupts, because he had told Phil. They've had this conversation a dozen times, Phil not wanting to "risk" Clint's money in the real estate market or whatever, no matter how many times Clint told him it was stupid to have the money right there and not use it. "It's just money and putting to work here--" Clint gestures around the room, at the unseen new plastering and Natasha's apartment and everything else Phil had organized and researched and planned and supervised, everything laid out like one of his ops, except there wasn't a target or a mark, only a house, which, it's turning out, is a much bigger deal. "This is better than me just blowing it on whatever, and it's not like I'm gonna need a retiremen--"
Clint snaps his mouth shut but it's too late, the words are already out there. Natasha is so still Clint doesn't think she's breathing and Phil... Phil just sits and looks at Clint and the silence stretches out between them until the fire pops and hisses and a log falls in on itself with a soft shushing noise. Phil sighs and rubs at the bridge of his nose, but his voice is calm and even when he says, "Given that I'm the one who's technically a dead man, it seemed prudent to vest the title in some way that couldn't be revoked on a technicality." He leans down to kiss Natasha, once on each cheek and then on the forehead before he stands slowly, as though he's suddenly worn out. "You'll excuse me," he says to Natasha, but he brushes his fingers across the back of Clint's neck as he leaves the room.
Clint counts to a hundred before he trusts himself enough to speak. "Christ, I'm such a fucking moron."
"Well, yes, but not for saying that," Natasha says calmly. Clint doesn't think he's ever been more grateful that he didn't just follow orders and put an arrow through her heart all those years ago. No one has ever had his back the way she has, even when she's kicking his ass. "You were thinking it--it's always worse when you shove it down and don't address it." Clint groans, and she goes on, "This life--it is what it is, Clint. You know it, I know it, Phil knows it. Maybe he doesn't like it, but he knows it."
Clint sits there for a while, Natasha's eyes on him the whole time, and finally says, "This'd be where I go address it, yeah?"
"I think so," she says. She's not unsympathetic, which Clint is choosing to attribute to the season, not that she thinks he's totally fucked things up and she needs to treat him with care. "Your timing is exquisite, as always, but it'll be fine."
"Vote of confidence, check," Clint says and drags himself to his feet. "You're not gonna bail, are you? You'll still be here in the morning, right?"
"Is the bacon I saw in the refrigerator for breakfast?"
Clint thinks of the three pounds of thick-cut, maple-cured bacon he hadn't been able to resist when he'd been appropriating supplies from the Tower on his way down. JARVIS has the best dealers for everything; Clint is sure this will food of the gods.
"Yup."
"And you're frying all of it," Natasha says. "Emphasis on the 'you' and the 'all'."
"Yup."
"And I will only have to fight off you and Coulson for my share?"
"Yup."
"Then please, feel free to go deal with your domestic crisis and I'll see you for breakfast." She lets Clint bring her the rest of the bottle of wine she and Phil had cracked but then arches an eyebrow at him until he sighs and aims himself toward the stairs. As he starts up to the attic suite, she's settling herself more comfortably on the couch, wineglass in hand and her eyes on the fire. Clint can't remember the last time he's seen her so still.
Clint runs through a dozen different apologies on the way up, but when he opens the bedroom door, they all fly out of his head and he and Phil end up back in the quiet place, at least until Phil smiles the smile Clint remembers from debriefings after several extremely fucked-up ops and says, "That's... not exactly how I thought things might go."
"Fuck, Phil," Clint says, the words rushing out of him. "I'm sorr--"
"Don't," Phil says. "Let's just... not do this now?"
That actually sets alarm bells off in the back of Clint's brain--Phil never backs away from anything--but it's been a while since he's seen Phil looking quite so exhausted, so he promises himself he won't take the easy out and let it slide, and nods in agreement.
Phil waits patiently for him to brush his teeth and strip out of his clothes before he kills the light next to the bed. The moon is full enough that it doesn't take Clint long to be able to see in the silvered light that spills in through the half-open curtains and he knows Phil is watching him as he climbs into the bed. For someone Clint knows can sleep on bare rock if he needs to, Phil is ridiculously picky about the sheets and covers on his bed. Not for the first time, Clint is grateful that Phil had indulged himself because there's something very comforting about sinking into sheets that are as soft as silk and a duvet that wraps around them like a shield against life's problems. Clint used to think it was nothing but a pretty cover, not real in any way that actually counts, but settling in next to Phil, feeling him relax and hearing his breathing even out, Clint is beginning to think this is the only real thing there is.
"I shouldn't have sprung it on you like that," Phil says. He's sprawled out like he usually does, an arm and a leg thrown over Clint, but he doesn't stop Clint from sitting up.
"Wait," Clint says. "You're not trying to apologize to me, are you?"
"It was incredibly manipulative--"
"No, really," Clint snaps. "It wasn't. I've been played by the best and you're not even close, Coulson."
"Clint," Phil says, stroking slow and easy along where Clint has his forearm braced on the mattress. "If I'd wanted to do this fairly, I should have brought it up at a neutral time, not tied it all up in the holiday."
"Yeah? So why didn't you?" Clint can't really account for all the anger that comes bubbling up when he hears Phil blaming himself, but Phil doesn't look surprised at the edge in his voice and he doesn't take his hand off of Clint's arm.
"I told myself it would be okay, that it was all in the spirit of the holiday."
"It was," Clint says. "I just--I told you I don't have any idea how to do this Christmas shit."
"No, you were honest," Phil says, as though that's what's important, not Clint totally fucking up the night. "Which I'm grateful for, no matter how little I might like to hear some things."
"Phil--"
"We can talk about it in the morning," Phil says, and now Clint knows exactly where the anger is coming from.
"No," Clint snarls. "We can fucking well talk about it now." He gets a grip, holds himself still, as though he's in a nest and needing to take a shot because it's the only way he knows how to stay calm. "I can't--" He takes a breath and tries again. "Putting it off until morning isn't going to help."
Phil breathes in a careful, controlled rhythm that Clint knows is meant to keep everyone calm, but he nods and sits up next to Clint.
"Okay," Clint says. "Okay, seriously, I--was a little freaked and I'm sorry." He looks at Phil and it doesn't matter that they're in the dark, nothing but the moonlight to see by, he knows every inch of Phil's face, had known it long before they were together like this. "I meant it, though--the money doesn't mean anything. You shouldn't feel like you owe me this."
"I--would you believe me if I told you I would have done the same thing even without the money?"
Clint shrugs because he'd really like to believe it but it's pretty hard to get there.
"You wouldn't take a promissory note, or any kind of a guarantee; this seemed to be a compromise." Phil waits until Clint shrugs again. "I knew you wouldn't like it, but I thought--if it was a gift, you might not throw it in my face. Or, well, I told myself that was why I did it the way I did."
"You don't have to do this," Clint says. "You don't owe me.
"I know that," Phil says. "If I thought I did, it would have been a check, and it wouldn't have been wrapped up as a present." He leans into Clint a little. "This is something I want to do. Very much."
Clint knows his baseline for normal is seriously fucked up, but this, letting someone in this far, he thinks this might be what he's supposed to be doing. He's not sure, though, mostly because he's ricocheting between the kind of contentment he's always thought was fiction and a bone-deep fear that he's going to screw up irrevocably.
"I--" Clint finally makes himself speak. "I don't have any idea what I'm supposed to do here."
"The manipulative part of me wants to tell you to just say 'yes,'" Phil murmurs. "The more mature and less insecure part insists that I tell you to do what you want."
What Clint wants and what he gets have never been all that closely linked to each other, but Phil's alive and sitting next to Clint in their bed, all of which never seemed possible in any way. Clint doesn't think he's supposed to take that as some kind of a sign that he should press his luck, but he's always sucked at doing what he's supposed to.
"Okay," he finally says. "Yes."
"You're sure?" Phil is very still next to Clint. "You mean it?"
"Yeah," Clint answers, and then repeats more strongly, "Yes." He looks at Phil and can't decide whether to shrug or smile or what, so he just nods.
"Good." The tension bleeds out of Phil and takes Clint's with it, too. "I--good," Phil says, more ragged than Clint's ever heard him. He lies back and brings Clint down with him. "Gotta tell you, I thought I screwed this one up but good."
Now that Clint's sure that he hasn't done just that, he's kind of lost all incentive to do anything but be still and maybe poke at the pronoun change they just perpetrated on the house (their house, fuck.) He can't come right out and say it, but he can actually think it and not stop breathing and that's not a bad start at all.
Fandom: The Avengers (movie-verse)
Pairing: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov
Rating: Mature for this part, Explicit overall
Length: ~4500 words for this part; ~25,600 overall
Notes/Warnings: Epilogue/timestamp to doesn't matter if i bleed and will probably make much more sense if you've read that. When I started writing this whole thing, all I really wanted to do was to write the curtain fic epilogue. It just took a while to figure out how my Strike Team Delta might react to getting that curtain fic.
Also posted to AO3, here for the whole fic, or here for just this epilogue.
It's still pitch black when Clint's phone chimes with the text from Nat saying the SI jet was on the runway at LaGuardia. It's the end of December, though, so it's not all that early. Clint eases out of the big bed, moving carefully so as not to wake Phil. He's got enough time for a decent shower and to get breakfast organized before he'll need to leave to make the quick trip up the river to meet Natasha. Theoretically, Nat is the last person in the world who needs an airport pick-up, but Clint knows she's more than a little freaked by this whole thing, so he figures he'll make it so she has to ditch him in person if she ends up with cold feet.
Of course, it could just be that he's the one in need of a little moral support, but either way, it's enough to get his ass out of bed and stumbling into the bathroom.
By the time Clint makes it down to the kitchen, the coffeemaker is just finishing up its first, timer-fired carafe. He fills a thermos and a couple of travel mugs and gets it set up again to go off at a more civilized time for Phil. He knows he's pushing his luck, but he goes ahead and sticks a double serving of the steel-cut oats in a glass bowl, topping it off with enough brown sugar and chopped pecans to send a class of kindergarteners into hyperactive mode before he puts it all in the microwave. It's Phil's favorite--not that he'd actually admit to liking anything that sweet, but Clint has eyes. Trained ones, even, and they don't miss how quickly the sugared stuff disappears.
2 min on HIGH, Clint writes on one of the ubiquitous Post-It notes. Extra cream in the fridge--EAT, DAMMIT.
He sticks the note on the front of the microwave and leaves a spoon and napkin next to the coffee mug on the counter. The more trouble it looks like he's gone to, the less likely Phil is to skip out on eating. It's sneaky and manipulative, but successful and that's all Clint cares about.
He'd packed up the truck the night before; all he needs to do is juggle his duffel and the coffee out to where it's parked and officially get this whole insane idea underway.
The sky is just starting to lighten when the airport roars to life, the first flights taking off at 0700, the Stark jet dropping down over the Potomac to land not long after. Natasha walks briskly out of the corporate jet hangar with that particular attitude that makes Clint wish his Kevlar was within arm's length. She throws her bag in the backseat and takes the coffee he offers, though, so he puts the truck in gear and heads out.
It's ten miles and close to twenty minutes before she sets the travel mug down and sighs. "He does know I have no idea what "normal" is, right?"
"Like I do?" Clint snorts. He doesn't have a clue what had prompted Phil to decide that the three of them, of all people, could celebrate Christmas together, but Phil is not above a little sneaky manipulation himself, so here they all are. To be fair, Clint had agreed to the idea (theoretically, at least) and he'd been in the room with Nat when Phil had called to invite her formally. Total current freakout aside, he'd seen the look in her eyes when Phil had said, "We would very much like it if you could join us for the holiday, Natasha," and she was also theoretically onboard.
"Technically, we've done Christmas before," Clint offers.
"Trying not to freeze to death in a cave in the Urals doesn't count," Natasha says sharply. Clint isn't stupid enough to ask if she still knows all the words to Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer, even if she had willingly participated in learning them from him in a successful bid to both stay awake and irritate Phil enough to keep him from slipping away from them from blood loss and shock while they waited for ex-fil.
"This--it's not a job. That makes it different," Natasha sighs. Clint shrugs.
"Pepper's riding herd on Stark, Cap andBanner," he says. "And Rhodes. Tell me that doesn't make you, me and Phil sound like a picnic."
Nat mutters something under her breath, just loudly enough that Clint can identify the language as Bulgarian, which he knows she reserves for the rare times she has no clear idea of what to do, but then she takes a deep breath and says, "We're fifteen miles past Phil's house; where are we going?"
"If I told you to trust me, I'll explain when we get there, would you?" Clint knows the answer before he even asks, but some days he likes tilting at windmills. Natasha slants a Do not fuck with me, Barton look at him and he grins in reply. "Yeah, didn't think so." He waits another second, just to wind her up a little bit longer--because he knows she knows he wouldn't jerk her around if he thought there was really a problem and he thinks they both need the reassurance that this whole Christmas thing isn't really going to be a disaster--and then says, in an obnoxiously cheerful tone, "You and me, babe--we get to go shoot mistletoe."
Even if she does follow through with the threat he sees in her eyes and guts him before he gets another mile down the road, the pure disbelief on her face is worth it.
"Oh, my God, you were serious," Natasha murmurs as she loads the 12-gauge shotgun Clint brought along for her. She works efficiently, as always, but Clint sees how carefully she's holding it, like it's a special treat, and he can't help grinning. It is a classic: an over-under with a rocker trigger and custom stock, cut to fit her height and reach; he knew she'd like it as soon as he saw it. She's still annoyed enough with him to pretend like she hasn't noticed anything special, but he figures he's off the hook, at least for a little while.
Their host, one of Phil's former doctoral candidates, leads them across the open field toward a stand of trees. Phil hadn't said much when he'd sent Clint off on this crazy ride, but the guy is clearly military, clearly Special Forces, and clearly high-ranking. He'd also taken one look and known exactly who the hell Clint and Natasha really are, but isn't making any kind of a fuss. Clint trusts Phil not to have sent them to somebody who doesn't know how to handle himself, so he's not making one either, and Natasha is following his lead.
Clint steps back and gives her space, letting her set up the shot to the clumps of mistletoe dotting the very tops of the trees. She fires both barrels in quick succession and two basketball-sized bundles of green tumble the thirty feet to the ground. She doesn't exactly smirk when Clint tosses her two more shells to reload, but the tightness around her eyes has relaxed, which makes him relax, and then he has to laugh at how well Phil still knows how to handle the both of them.
"Yeah, so we might have gone a little overboard," Clint says as he lifts the lawn-and-leaf-sized bag of mistletoe out of the back of his truck and sets it on the ground in front of Phil. "You know how competitive Romanoff gets."
"Yes, it's entirely my fault," Natasha says, smiling as she takes both of Phil's hands in her own. "There was no one else around."
"It's astonishing how often that happens." Phil leans down so Natasha can press quick kisses against his cheek. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm just living with a hologram."
"Nice," Clint cracks, even if he still sometimes has a hard time catching his breath when Phil drops those casual comments about them actually being together. "Remind me why I put up with this shit again?"
"The sex is phenomenal," Phil says, giving Clint a quick, flickering look as he's ushering Natasha into the house and leaving Clint to grab her bag.
Clint would bitch about being treated like the hired hand except he's too busy trying to get his brain back under control after that look, the one that said Phil still had plans for him no matter that they'd spent half the night before wrapped up in each other, Clint jerking himself off while Phil watched, Phil barely opening Clint up before fucking him with a slow, deep rhythm that made them both crazy.
Phenomenal is an understatement.
Clint gets his act together and catches up with the other two mid-way through the grand tour of the remodeling. The attic and cosmetic stuff throughout is done; Phil's new office, slated for what had been the old kitchen outbuilding is still to go. Even having that much done is pretty impressive, but Stark had sent down the construction company he uses on his own property. Clint thinks they're actually kind of in love with Phil--in a strictly contractor-client sort of a way--just because he doesn't show up with redrawn blueprints every morning or insist on industrial wiring at the drop of the hat.
"It's very serene," Natasha is saying as Phil shows her where she'll be staying. Even in winter, the muted greens and blues make it feel like a water garden. "Peaceful."
"I hope you'll like it," Phil says, and Clint will give him credit: he's still got the straightest face of any agent ever. It had taken Clint a while to figure out why Phil had turned the house upside down and moved his room to the attic (their room, Phil always says, but it's going to take Clint a while longer to be able to think that without stumbling) but he'd clued in once he'd seen the separate entrance and the tiny kitchen and laundry tucked into a corner and realized how very few people Phil would have gone to that much trouble for. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go make sure your handiwork from this morning doesn't go to waste."
Clint had never seen Phil's private life while they were at SHIELD together; he has no idea if this person who knows the people who live around him and participates in the community is how Phil had been then. Based solely on the hours Phil had worked, he doesn't think it's likely. Even if it's not something he's entirely comfortable with, Clint kind of likes seeing it happen now, watching as Phil greets his neighbors and makes sure everyone gets at least a sprig or two of the mistletoe.
"I'm afraid to even ask how you explained that," Natasha says as Phil comes back inside.
"Surprisingly enough, it wasn't all that difficult," Phil says. He points at the two of them. "Federal agents. Partners. Never ones to turn down an excuse to shoot things."
"Smooth," Clint says.
"Sometimes you just have to keep it simple."
"And that," Clint says, hauling himself to his feet to go get the oil started heating for the turkey he's planning on deep-frying. "That is why he got paid the big bucks at SHIELD."
The temperature drops steadily through the day; by the time Clint gets the turkey cooked and back inside he's cold enough that he doesn't even bother giving Phil the standard hard time about latent pyromaniacal tendencies before he parks himself in front of the kitchen fireplace and lets his hands and face thaw out. Natasha wanders in and settles herself on a counter while Clint finishes off the rest of the food. She's quiet, but not strained; Clint starts to think this whole ideas of Phil's could end up being not just awkward-but-good but really-and-truly-good.
"If I cook, he eats," Clint explains when she arches an eyebrow at the cream and butter he's mashing into the potatoes. "And the more calories the better." She nods but continues to eye him thoughtfully. Clint knows that look; he can only take it for so long before he breaks and sighs, "What?"
"If I'd known about all this--" Natasha waves her hand to encompass the kitchen and Clint, the turkey resting under aluminum foil, the bread and vegetables keeping warm on the back of the stove. "Who knew my gift shopping issues could have been resolved with an apron or two?"
"Oh, screw you," Clint says, laughing. "I make fucking awesome mashed potatoes and if you can't be nice, you won't get any."
"Threats, Barton?" Natasha jumps down from the counter, landing lightly. "Are you sure you want to go there?"
"No blood," Phil says, coming into the kitchen. He still moves as quietly as he had when he'd been an agent. "The walls have just been repainted and it's a bitch to get out of the carpeting." He steals a piece of turkey from the platter Clint had found in one of the cupboards and surveys the rest of the kitchen. "You do know it's just the three of us for dinner, yes?"
Clint shrugs self-consciously. It's stupid and all, but he'd maybe imprinted on one too many cheesy holiday TV shows as a kid, where there was always too much food to fit on the table that everyone crowded around, so utterly alien to everything Clint knew as reality.
"Sorry," Phil says quietly. He leans into Clint for a second or two, just long enough for the subtle physical reinforcement that works for them both, long enough that it's not a lie when Clint nods and answers, "'s okay."
Before Natasha can execute a pure Black Widow fade-into-the-background--which is not what he or Phil want at all--Clint bumps his hip into Phil's and goes back to dealing with the food, saying, "I can throw some MREs onto a tarp if anybody really needs some comfort food--"
"Please do not make me stab you," Natasha sighs.
"What the lady said," Phil agrees and the moment passes, another tiny bit of the history between the three of them. It feels bigger than a couple of seconds in a kitchen should, but there isn't any blood or pain or weaponry involved so maybe it really is a Moment.
Since he cooked, Clint is supposed to be off dish duty, but sitting around while Phil and Natasha deal with the disaster he left behind is pretty boring, so he ends up in the kitchen anyway, straddling a chair and heckling the other two. He doesn't know if that's how Christmas Eve dinner is supposed to go, but Nat doesn't throw any knives--though Clint can tell he's tempting her severely--and Phil does his usual magical act with the coffee and they all three end up back in front of the fire with just enough caffeine to keep the withdrawal headaches at bay but not so much to get them jittering.
Phil being Phil, Clint is sure there's an agenda somewhere, probably with a color-coordinated timetable and possibly supporting flow diagrams. Ordinarily, Clint would be giving him a hard time about it, but given that neither he nor Natasha have much of a clue about celebrating anything other than making it out of an op-gone-wrong still alive, who's Clint to complain about a plan that doesn't include heavy weaponry. He just tips his head back so he can see Phil from where he's sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch Phil's sitting on, and asks, "What's next, boss?"
"We can do presents now," Phil says. "Or we can open them tomorrow, in the morning. Either way is fine by me."
"Now," Natasha says, lifting her head up from where it's been pillowed on Clint's thigh. "Before some moron decides it's a good time to launch a worldwide attack."
"She has a point," Clint says, trying to sound casual about it all, presents and a tree and he doesn't even know what else, all the things he'd decided as a kid weren't actually real because they'd never existed in any world he'd known. He's pretty sure he's failing big-time, but Phil only nods and Natasha rolls to her feet gracefully and disappears. Phil arches an eyebrow at Clint, one that says No, I will not be retrieving anything until you leave, because God forbid Clint not have to work to figure out where Phil stashes things he doesn't want Clint to find. Clint grins and goes to get his own stuff.
Natasha's gifts are perfectly wrapped, of course, and Phil opens his--a heavy, flat package that all but screams I'm a book--with typical care, prying up the folds and working the tape loose gently. She waves a hand at Clint, though, tacit permission to rip away at his own, much bigger, box. Phil's book turns out to be a history of the property, painstakingly compiled from land deeds and newspaper clippings, while Clint's box is full of soft, silky-feeling sweaters.
"Cashmere," Natasha says, adding "You never wear a coat." That's true enough; he doesn't like the extra weight or the hit it deals to his mobility, even if he's only walking down the street. "I get tired of watching you freeze." What she isn't saying is that his usual hoodies don't always fit with this life he seems to be carving out and he hasn't quite gotten to where he can do anything about it.
"You are an amazing, frightening woman," Clint says, leaning over to kiss her before Phil recovers from his geektastic speechlessness and takes over the actual communications. Just for a second, Natasha lights up at his words, a flash of emotion she still only rarely allows anyone to see. Clint thinks back to the cold woman he hunted and to the closed-off, defensive asset he was then, and it only barely seems possible that they're here now. He looks back at Phil, who's still heads-down in his book, flipping back and forth between several different photos with the kind of interest he used to reserve for alien artifacts falling from the sky, and nudges his own present toward Natasha.
They only had one rule about the presents: nothing work-related. Clint is right up on the edge with both his gifts, but he thinks they're okay. He hopes. Natasha makes quick work of the wrappings and box and holds the necklace he had custom made for her in the palm of her hand. It's a collection of charms and gemstones, everything from an Orthodox cross (they've taken refuge in more than one cathedral over the years) to the coat of arms of Budapest (which, he gets why it's important, he just would rather not think too much about how close they'd cut it that day) to rough-polished chunks of chalcedony and lapis for brotherhood and friendship. He holds his breath as she sorts through each charm without looking up, but when she's done, she slips the chain over her head and reaches out to cup his face in her hand. She doesn't say anything, at least not in words, but since Clint knows he wouldn't be able to answer anyway, it's better that they keep it like this.
"Phil's turn," Clint finally says, and nobody comments on how rough his voice sounds, for which he is very grateful. Phil does his thing with the careful unwrapping again, even though Clint's standards are nowhere near Natasha's. Clint is less uncertain about his gift than he had been Natasha's (that's always going to be a minefield, he thinks) but it's still harder to breathe than it should be. Phil knows Clint's freaking out, of course, and he drops one hand down to rest on the back of Clint's neck while he fumbles open the box with the other.
"Very nice," Phil murmurs, and Clint almost doesn't care that Phil lets go of him because he does it so he can take the cufflinks Clint had made for him out of their box, holding them like they're worth a lot more than the couple hundred bucks Clint had spent on them. "Roman?"
"Yeah," Clint says. "First century." Natasha makes an impatient noise and Phil holds his hand out so she can see them, too. Clint has to admit they look better than he'd ever even hoped for, the silver of the coins JARVIS had helped him find worn down by time but still unmistakable. He hadn't been sure whether setting them into cufflinks was a good idea, but they're small enough to not be tacky. He thinks Phil will be okay with wearing them, at least some of the time.
"Apollo." Natasha rubs her thumb lightly over the tiny figure on the front face. She smiles up at Clint. "The archer." Clint shrugs again, only a little self-conscious this time. It's not especially subtle, but that's probably not a surprise to anyone who knows him even a little bit.
Phil takes the cufflinks back from Natasha, but he doesn't return them to their box, only drops them in the pocket of his shirt before leaning in to drop a kiss on Clint's temple. For all that it's the merest brush of Phil's lips across his skin, the casual intimacy of it still rocks Clint's world a little. Phil's wearing a tiny, not-quite smirk; Natasha isn't even that subtle, but before Clint can decide how best to get a little of his own back--a guy's got to keep at least a little dignity--Phil is handing Natasha a small box wrapped in the tackiest fucking paper Clint's ever seen.
"This is technically from the both of us," Phil says. Clint tries--and fails--not to roll his eyes because 'technically', yes, he did say he was good with it, but it's not like he had anything to do with the actual grunt work of putting it all together.
Natasha raises an eyebrow at the paper, but doesn't pretend that she isn't invested in getting to what's underneath it. Clint kicks back and enjoys watching her rip through the wrappings but he doesn't think it'd surprise anyone to know that he really gets his thrill out of watching Phil watch her. When she gets to the box and the keys fall into her hand, she stares at them unblinkingly for long enough that Clint doesn't even have to look hard to catch Phil starting to shift into crisis-management mode.
"Is this what I think it is?" Natasha finally asks in that perfectly calm voice, the one that says to Clint she's buying herself time, and fuck, but Clint seriously hopes it's time she needs to process, not start running.
"If you think it's a set of keys to the side door on the apartment you're sleeping in, then yes, it is what you think it is," Phil answers, in the same calm voice, which tells Clint he's trying to figure out how to avert an impending disaster.
They stare at each other for long enough that Clint figures he better step up, before one of them does something stupid. If he wasn't kind of holding his breath waiting for Nat to lose it and Phil to overreact in response, he figures he'd be enjoying this whole being-the-one-who's-not-freaking-out thing more. As it is, he's mostly just... jittery, so he takes a deep breath and lets it trickle out, like he's lining up a shot and can't afford to let anything in his head bleed through to the rest of his body.
"Nat," Clint says quietly. He thinks he sounds good. Solid. Nothing in his voice that even hints how much he doesn't want this to turn into a complete clusterfuck. "You need to breathe, so Phil can, too."
She shoots him a sharp glance, but since it's really only at DefCon 2 or 3, he's not too worried. He's survived worse, and with far less important outcomes at stake. It breaks the spell, though; Natasha meets Phil's eyes, while he leans in and folds her hand around the keys. Clint doesn't sigh in relief--that's a sure invitation for a couple of extra kicks to the ribs the next time he and Nat spar--but he thinks about it. Phil smiles at him like he knows what Clint was thinking, but then he's holding out a flat box wrapped in different, but equally obnoxious paper and Clint has better stuff to think about.
"Damn, Phil," Clint says, tearing at the ridiculous amount of tape Phil had used. "I'm kinda afraid to ask where you got your wrapping style."
The words are out of his mouth before he thinks about them. About all Clint knows is that Phil had been an only child of older parents, long-since passed away. He doesn't know if there's any extended family or anything, or if Phil might not appreciate being reminded that he's spending the holiday with a couple of assets instead of with them.
"If everything's perfect, it's a magazine spread, not reality," Phil says, as calm and unperturbed as ever. "My father always said that--mostly, I think, to excuse his incredibly bad taste in--well, everything." He smiles to himself.
"Yeah?" Clint asks, glad that fighting with the damn package gives him a plausible reason not to look at Phil while he talks. It makes it easier to keep from sounding like a sentimental idiot over hearing Phil talk about his family, however insignificant it might be. "You get your tape technique from him, too?"
"No," Phil says, and his smile, when Clint darts a quick look at him, is wicked now. "That's just because Natasha and I wanted to see how long you'd work at that by hand before you tried to steal one of her knives."
"Hey," Clint sputters indignantly. "I was trying to be classy here, but if that's the way you want to play--" His practice quiver is right inside the door; he can cut with an arrow as easily as he can a knife, but before he can actually stand up and go get one, Natasha's tossing one of her small stilettos in the air and he catches it almost by instinct. "Don't piss off the guy who's getting up to make your breakfast," he grumbles, slicing through the fifteen layers of tape Phil's wrapped around the thing and throwing the knife back to Natasha.
"Maybe I just like watching your technique," Phil murmurs. He lets his eyes linger on Clint's hands for a second or two longer than strictly necessary and then smiles at Clint and Clint decides he can probably forgive him.
Just this once.
Clint already owes Nat for more than he'll ever be able to square up with her; letting her give him a hard time about something like wrapping paper doesn't seem like much of down payment, even before he gets to the part where he can put up with a lot more to see her as relaxed as she is now, so he just rolls his eyes at her and digs into the package.
"Gee, honey," he says, when he pulls out an accordion file that's stuffed so full it's barely closing. "You got me... paperwork? You shouldn't have." Phil's still smiling at him, but he's starting to look almost nervous around the edges, which is enough for Clint to cut the chatter and seriously pay attention to whatever it is in his hands. Natasha makes an impatient sound and Clint starts passing over pages once he's skimmed them and--
"Numbered accounts in the Caymans?" she murmurs and Clint shrugs helplessly, because he's ten pages ahead of her and they're articles of incorporation, two levels deep and the only asset he's seeing is a quit-claim deed.
"For fuck's sake, Phil, are you crazy?" Clint ruffles through the pages again, but nothing changes, not the dummy corporations or the bank accounts or the address on the deed, and he really fucking cannot deal with this.
Clint shoves the rest of the paperwork at Natasha and looks up at Phil, who shrugs at him and says, "I wouldn't have done even half as much work here without the money you threw in--"
"Like I told you, it wasn't a big deal," Clint interrupts, because he had told Phil. They've had this conversation a dozen times, Phil not wanting to "risk" Clint's money in the real estate market or whatever, no matter how many times Clint told him it was stupid to have the money right there and not use it. "It's just money and putting to work here--" Clint gestures around the room, at the unseen new plastering and Natasha's apartment and everything else Phil had organized and researched and planned and supervised, everything laid out like one of his ops, except there wasn't a target or a mark, only a house, which, it's turning out, is a much bigger deal. "This is better than me just blowing it on whatever, and it's not like I'm gonna need a retiremen--"
Clint snaps his mouth shut but it's too late, the words are already out there. Natasha is so still Clint doesn't think she's breathing and Phil... Phil just sits and looks at Clint and the silence stretches out between them until the fire pops and hisses and a log falls in on itself with a soft shushing noise. Phil sighs and rubs at the bridge of his nose, but his voice is calm and even when he says, "Given that I'm the one who's technically a dead man, it seemed prudent to vest the title in some way that couldn't be revoked on a technicality." He leans down to kiss Natasha, once on each cheek and then on the forehead before he stands slowly, as though he's suddenly worn out. "You'll excuse me," he says to Natasha, but he brushes his fingers across the back of Clint's neck as he leaves the room.
Clint counts to a hundred before he trusts himself enough to speak. "Christ, I'm such a fucking moron."
"Well, yes, but not for saying that," Natasha says calmly. Clint doesn't think he's ever been more grateful that he didn't just follow orders and put an arrow through her heart all those years ago. No one has ever had his back the way she has, even when she's kicking his ass. "You were thinking it--it's always worse when you shove it down and don't address it." Clint groans, and she goes on, "This life--it is what it is, Clint. You know it, I know it, Phil knows it. Maybe he doesn't like it, but he knows it."
Clint sits there for a while, Natasha's eyes on him the whole time, and finally says, "This'd be where I go address it, yeah?"
"I think so," she says. She's not unsympathetic, which Clint is choosing to attribute to the season, not that she thinks he's totally fucked things up and she needs to treat him with care. "Your timing is exquisite, as always, but it'll be fine."
"Vote of confidence, check," Clint says and drags himself to his feet. "You're not gonna bail, are you? You'll still be here in the morning, right?"
"Is the bacon I saw in the refrigerator for breakfast?"
Clint thinks of the three pounds of thick-cut, maple-cured bacon he hadn't been able to resist when he'd been appropriating supplies from the Tower on his way down. JARVIS has the best dealers for everything; Clint is sure this will food of the gods.
"Yup."
"And you're frying all of it," Natasha says. "Emphasis on the 'you' and the 'all'."
"Yup."
"And I will only have to fight off you and Coulson for my share?"
"Yup."
"Then please, feel free to go deal with your domestic crisis and I'll see you for breakfast." She lets Clint bring her the rest of the bottle of wine she and Phil had cracked but then arches an eyebrow at him until he sighs and aims himself toward the stairs. As he starts up to the attic suite, she's settling herself more comfortably on the couch, wineglass in hand and her eyes on the fire. Clint can't remember the last time he's seen her so still.
Clint runs through a dozen different apologies on the way up, but when he opens the bedroom door, they all fly out of his head and he and Phil end up back in the quiet place, at least until Phil smiles the smile Clint remembers from debriefings after several extremely fucked-up ops and says, "That's... not exactly how I thought things might go."
"Fuck, Phil," Clint says, the words rushing out of him. "I'm sorr--"
"Don't," Phil says. "Let's just... not do this now?"
That actually sets alarm bells off in the back of Clint's brain--Phil never backs away from anything--but it's been a while since he's seen Phil looking quite so exhausted, so he promises himself he won't take the easy out and let it slide, and nods in agreement.
Phil waits patiently for him to brush his teeth and strip out of his clothes before he kills the light next to the bed. The moon is full enough that it doesn't take Clint long to be able to see in the silvered light that spills in through the half-open curtains and he knows Phil is watching him as he climbs into the bed. For someone Clint knows can sleep on bare rock if he needs to, Phil is ridiculously picky about the sheets and covers on his bed. Not for the first time, Clint is grateful that Phil had indulged himself because there's something very comforting about sinking into sheets that are as soft as silk and a duvet that wraps around them like a shield against life's problems. Clint used to think it was nothing but a pretty cover, not real in any way that actually counts, but settling in next to Phil, feeling him relax and hearing his breathing even out, Clint is beginning to think this is the only real thing there is.
"I shouldn't have sprung it on you like that," Phil says. He's sprawled out like he usually does, an arm and a leg thrown over Clint, but he doesn't stop Clint from sitting up.
"Wait," Clint says. "You're not trying to apologize to me, are you?"
"It was incredibly manipulative--"
"No, really," Clint snaps. "It wasn't. I've been played by the best and you're not even close, Coulson."
"Clint," Phil says, stroking slow and easy along where Clint has his forearm braced on the mattress. "If I'd wanted to do this fairly, I should have brought it up at a neutral time, not tied it all up in the holiday."
"Yeah? So why didn't you?" Clint can't really account for all the anger that comes bubbling up when he hears Phil blaming himself, but Phil doesn't look surprised at the edge in his voice and he doesn't take his hand off of Clint's arm.
"I told myself it would be okay, that it was all in the spirit of the holiday."
"It was," Clint says. "I just--I told you I don't have any idea how to do this Christmas shit."
"No, you were honest," Phil says, as though that's what's important, not Clint totally fucking up the night. "Which I'm grateful for, no matter how little I might like to hear some things."
"Phil--"
"We can talk about it in the morning," Phil says, and now Clint knows exactly where the anger is coming from.
"No," Clint snarls. "We can fucking well talk about it now." He gets a grip, holds himself still, as though he's in a nest and needing to take a shot because it's the only way he knows how to stay calm. "I can't--" He takes a breath and tries again. "Putting it off until morning isn't going to help."
Phil breathes in a careful, controlled rhythm that Clint knows is meant to keep everyone calm, but he nods and sits up next to Clint.
"Okay," Clint says. "Okay, seriously, I--was a little freaked and I'm sorry." He looks at Phil and it doesn't matter that they're in the dark, nothing but the moonlight to see by, he knows every inch of Phil's face, had known it long before they were together like this. "I meant it, though--the money doesn't mean anything. You shouldn't feel like you owe me this."
"I--would you believe me if I told you I would have done the same thing even without the money?"
Clint shrugs because he'd really like to believe it but it's pretty hard to get there.
"You wouldn't take a promissory note, or any kind of a guarantee; this seemed to be a compromise." Phil waits until Clint shrugs again. "I knew you wouldn't like it, but I thought--if it was a gift, you might not throw it in my face. Or, well, I told myself that was why I did it the way I did."
"You don't have to do this," Clint says. "You don't owe me.
"I know that," Phil says. "If I thought I did, it would have been a check, and it wouldn't have been wrapped up as a present." He leans into Clint a little. "This is something I want to do. Very much."
Clint knows his baseline for normal is seriously fucked up, but this, letting someone in this far, he thinks this might be what he's supposed to be doing. He's not sure, though, mostly because he's ricocheting between the kind of contentment he's always thought was fiction and a bone-deep fear that he's going to screw up irrevocably.
"I--" Clint finally makes himself speak. "I don't have any idea what I'm supposed to do here."
"The manipulative part of me wants to tell you to just say 'yes,'" Phil murmurs. "The more mature and less insecure part insists that I tell you to do what you want."
What Clint wants and what he gets have never been all that closely linked to each other, but Phil's alive and sitting next to Clint in their bed, all of which never seemed possible in any way. Clint doesn't think he's supposed to take that as some kind of a sign that he should press his luck, but he's always sucked at doing what he's supposed to.
"Okay," he finally says. "Yes."
"You're sure?" Phil is very still next to Clint. "You mean it?"
"Yeah," Clint answers, and then repeats more strongly, "Yes." He looks at Phil and can't decide whether to shrug or smile or what, so he just nods.
"Good." The tension bleeds out of Phil and takes Clint's with it, too. "I--good," Phil says, more ragged than Clint's ever heard him. He lies back and brings Clint down with him. "Gotta tell you, I thought I screwed this one up but good."
Now that Clint's sure that he hasn't done just that, he's kind of lost all incentive to do anything but be still and maybe poke at the pronoun change they just perpetrated on the house (their house, fuck.) He can't come right out and say it, but he can actually think it and not stop breathing and that's not a bad start at all.